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more discreditable traits of his character are to be found in the history of his life '.



When wert thou born, Desire? In pride and pomp

of May. By whom, sweet boy, wert thou begot? By fond con

ceit, men say. Tell me who was thy nurse? Fresh Youth, in sugar'd

joy. What was thy meat and daily food ? Sad sighs with

great annoy. What hadst thou then to drink? Unsavoury lover's

tears. What cradle wert thou rocked in? In hope devoid

of fears. What lulld thee, then, asleep? Sweet sleep, which

likes me best. Tell me where is thy dwelling-place? In gentle

hearts I rest.

What thing doth please thee most? To gaze on

beauty still. What dost thou think to be thy foe? Disdain of my

good-will. Doth company displease? Yes, surely, many one. Where doth Desire delight to ve? He loves to

live alone.


By Mr. Park, in the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors. Doth either Time or Age bring him into decay?. No, no, Desire both lives and dies a thousand times

a day. Then, fond Desire, farewell! thou art no mate for


I should, methinks, be loth to dwell with such a one

as thee.



If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
I would not marvel that they make me bond,
By service long, to purchase their good-will;
But when I see how frail those creatures are,
I muse that men forget themselves so far.

To mark the choice they make, and how they

change, How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan; Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range, These gentle birds that fly from man to man; Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist, And let them fly, fair fools, where'er they list ?

Yet, for disport, we fawn and flatter both,
To pass the time when nothing else can please,

And train them to our lure with subtil oath,
Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
And then we say, when we their fancy try,
To play with fools, oh, what a fool was I!


DIED 1604.

The date of this writer's birth can only be generally conjectured from his having been elected a student of Christ Church, Oxford, in 1587. The slight notice of him by Wood only mentions that he was the son of John Storer, a Londoner, and that he died in the metropolis. Besides the History of Cardinal Wolsey in three parts, viz, his aspiring, his triumph, and death, he wrote several pastoral pieces in England's Helicon.



PERCHANCE the tenor of my mourning verse
May lead some pilgrim to my tombless grave,
Where neither marble monument, nor hearse,
The passenger's attentive view may crave,
Which honours now the meanest persons have;
But well is me, where'er my ashes lie,
If one tear drop from some religious eye.


Yet, as through Tagus' fair transparent streams,
The wand'ring merchant sees the wealthy gold,
Or like in Cynthia's half obscured beams,
Through misty clouds and vapours manifold;
So through a mirror of my hop'd for gain,
I saw the treasure which I should obtain.

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From that rich valley where the angels laid him,
His unknown sepulchre in Moab's land,
Moses, that Israel led, and they obey'd him,
In glorious view before my face did stand,
Bearing the folded tables in his hand,
Wherein the doom of life, and death's despair,
By God's own finger was engraven there.

Then passing forth a joyful troop ensued
Of worthy judges and triumphant kings,

After several personages of sacred history, some allegorical ones condescend to visit the sleeping Cardinal, among whom Theology naturally has a place, and is thus described

In chariot framed of celestial mould,
And simple pureness of the purest sky,

A more than heavenly nymph I did behold,
Who glancing on me with her gracious eye,
So gave me leave her beauty to espy;
For sure no sense such sight can comprehend,
Except her beams their fair reflexion lend.

Her beauty with Eternity began,
And only unto God was ever seen,
When Eden was possess'd with sinful man,
She came to him and gladly would have been
The long succeeding world's eternal Queen;
But they refused her, O heinous deed!
And from that garden banish'd was their seed.

Since when, at sundry times in sundry ways,
Atheism and blended Ignorance conspire,
How to obscure those holy burning rays,
And quench that zeal of heart-enflaming fire
That makes our souls to heavenly things aspire ;
But all in vain, for, maugre all their might,
She never lost one sparkle of her light.

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